Aurora Borealis in New York?

Though I'm significantly farther North than I usually find myself these days, I'm still probably not as far North as I'd need to be to see Aurora Borealis tonight-- though some predictions say tonight's projected showing might reach as far South as New York. 

I'm a big fan of the Northern Lights. But seeing them somewhere other than Northern Europe might feel rather alien. As if they aren't alien enough to begin with. 

In case you won't see them, here's a showing from Norway in 2010. 

A Quote For Presidents' Day

Hi. I'm back. Happy Presidents' Day. I'll be more fully back later this week, but in the meantime, in the spirit of today, I wanted to post my favorite quote from Abraham Lincoln. It was always my favorite, but it took on a whole extra layer of emotion and meaning when it was uttered by Ben Whishaw, as Freddie Lyon, one of my all-time favorite television characters, in the Season 2 (and now what appears to be the series as a whole) finale of what might be my favorite television show of all time, The Hour. That episode stays with me still. If you haven't seen The Hour, please find a way to do so. 

And Lincoln, good on ya. Quite the premonition there, Uncle Abe.

“I see in the near future a crisis approaching that unnerves me and causes me to tremble for the safety of my country. . . . corporations have been enthroned and an era of corruption in high places will follow, and the money power of the country will endeavor to prolong its reign by working upon the prejudices of the people until all wealth is aggregated in a few hands and the Republic is destroyed.”—U.S. President Abraham Lincoln, Nov. 21, 1864 (letter to Col. William F. Elkins) 

This is the scene that immediately follows the Lincoln quote and ends the series. DON'T watch it until you've seen the whole thing. But please please watch this show. 

The Most Astounding Fact - Neil deGrasse Tyson Appreciation Day

My heart is warmed thinking of this guy speaking at the 100th commencement of my alma mater. Rice 2013 grads sure are lucky. (His wife is an alum, so I guess that was our in.) 

Neil is more than a scientist. He's a modern philosopher of real life and I can't wait to see what he tells those kids. I feel like he's going to blow our minds. Where Alberto Gonzales (a Rice alum) merely praised the virtues of George W. Bush in my own commencement speech-- in a desperate play to become Attorney General-- I doubt we'll hear much of that from Neil. 

Personally, I hope he break dances to Michael Jackson. But in lieu of that, I'll take something more like this. The simple revelry in the science, but also the magic of our existence. This is poetry as good as any I've heard. 

The Most Astounding Fact from Max Schlickenmeyer on Vimeo.

Happy 217th Birthday, John Keats

Happy Birthday to the jewel in my nerd crown, Mr. John Keats. Today is his 217th birthday and I've been saving talking about my experience at his house in Rome for today. 

Essentially, the Keats- Shelley Museum was the primary reason for my desire to go to Rome. I knew I'd love the whole place, but that was the main event. What I came to see. I find connecting to the artists I love gives me clarity. I wanted to see Keats' things. Be in the room where he wrote and where he died. (His death and illness being such a huge well of gravity for his persona and his writings.) I'd already been to the Keats House in Hampstead, but something about this felt more important. I'm not quite sure why. 

Trusty flatmate Fiona indulged my nerdery and I just took my time in the building, looking over his letters to Fanny, his handwriting, his watch, various comic book interpretations of some of his more epic poems. There was a lock of his hair there too and I was surprised to see his hair was blonder than most renderings of him let on. 

I believe there is a soul to buildings. And I could feel the soul of this place. The legacy of those who lived and died there and a kind of cool quiet in contrast to the bustling Spanish Plaza and famous Spanish Steps just outside. There is a steadfast energy to the place. The kind Keats himself so much admired.

Of course I loved all of Rome. But if I had only gone to see my man Keatsy's last domain, it would have been worth it. Happy 217th!

Tale of 2 Biopics- the More Jeff Buckley, the Merrier

One day in Arizona at a forensics tournament, when I was a young lass of 15, my friend Trevor Banks decided to change my life, and made me listen to Jeff Buckley. This was way before his big resurgence in the aughts and was in fact, right after he'd died. 

It synced up, in fact, with one of my old school mentors Duncan Sheik releasing his tribute song, "A Body Goes Down" on one of the seminal albums of my life, Humming. 

From then until his entry into the more popular consciousness, Jeff Buckley was a litmus test-- how many people could tell if someone was 'with it' or not. 

We have not one but potentially two Jeff Buckley biopics to look forward to in the coming months. Well, if the second-- official-- one actually gets made. First up is the one that uses little to no Jeff Buckley music, but looks pretty good despite that fact-- and despite what is, in my opinion, a rather unfortunate title: Greetings from Tim Buckley. 

But it looks like both the films will have unfortunate titles, as the 'officially sanctioned' one, with the music, will be called Mystery White Boy... or, just Boy. If it happens at all. There's dramz over on the set of that one too, as it's been reported that the movie has been "bogarted away" from its original director. It was supposed to film this summer, but that never happened and has a new director?

Penn Badgely seems to be drawing a lot of praise for his performance in 'Greetings'. I buy it. But man, Reeve Carney looks JUST like Jeff. So I hope they can get their shit together. Because word on the street is Reeve Carney may be out of the pic. That would be a shame shame shame. As far as I'm concerned, the more JB biopics the merrier. 

What a Wonderful World Friday Links

Even though I get pretty wound up about the state of things-- personally and worldwide, there's also a lot that's right. I'm completing things, I'm spending time with the people I care about and making new friends. Last night, I was on a boat cruise on the East River, listening to Dion and Tyler Hilton. 

When we got near the Statue of Liberty, Tyler stopped singing and we all just appreciated our surroundings. It was a gorgeous New York night. The sun had not quite dipped below the horizon line and Lady Liberty was washed in a rose colored light. Once we had passed, he didn't go back to the song he was singing before. He went into one of the best renditions of "What a Wonderful World" I've ever heard. I'll upload it. You'll see. 

Have an awesome and safe Labor Day weekend, you guys. I want to spend the weekend reading in a big chair. Here are your links. 

- Everything Has Its Way. 
- What Americans actually do all day long. 
- I was just in Italy last month (feels like a lifetime ago) and I want to go back. 
-Sooooo many things about the politics of being a woman these days. Bic can help. Read the comments.
- Even Fox News thought this speech was full of lies. 'Cuz it was.
- One-Conditional Love
- Excerpt from Michael Chabon's new novel, Telegraph Avenue. Oooh!
- Excerpt from Zadie Smith's new novel, NW. Oooh!

Halifax Harbo(u)r - Natal Day Fireworks

Saturday night before Aly & Dion's wedding, the city of Halifax decided to celebrate them with a fireworks extravaganza. Okay, actually the fireworks were for Halifax's birthday, the uncomfortably named Natal Day. 

Though, apparently, Halifax isn't a city. It was dissolved in 1996 and made a municipality along with a few other former cities. There are no longer cities in Nova Scotia. I have no idea what that actually means, but I'm intrigued by what appears to be a lot of semantics and bureaucratic rigmarole. 

City, Municipality, unincorporated provincial metropolitan area, potato, po-tah-to, I have to give it to Halifax Harbo(u)r. Daytime, Sunset, Night time... it is gorgeous 24/7. 

Reflecting in St Peter's Basilica

After the communication onslaught of yesterday (connecting with everyone over Ben has been really moving) I've been kind of quiet today. Packing, thinking, and realizing that what I did when I woke up the next morning after finding out that news was go to the capital of Catholicism: The Vatican and St Peter's Basilica, where the apostle Peter was crucified upside down. I think Ben would have had a chuckle about me heading to the Vatican in a way, in his honor. Many of our discussions were about Buddhism and Catholicism. Though he was pretty cool with Buddhism too. 

Everyone keeps asking if we went to the top of St Peter's and the answer is no, actually. I'll explain more later, but let's just say I had reached my limits of standing in line and sharing stank air in confined spaces with strangers. 

Even without journeying to the top, St Peter's is breathtaking. From the square with its outstretched arms that hug inward-- welcoming you into the fold-- to every golden overlapping angle. Crepuscular rays for days. A scientific word far too ugly for the thing it's describing. 

I love being in churches, cathedrals and chapels-- of any religion even more than I like cemeteries. It easier to hear the stories of what came before in places like that. It's easier to feel still enough to listen. 

There was a mass happening while we were there and singers. It was just a glowing, golden feeling bouncing off every one of those angles. Music. Light. Breeze. I was grateful. 

Some Thoughts on Fathers and Daughters Today

Time again for my annual Father's Day Shout out. This year, it's a tale of three fathers. 


Twenty years ago my life changed forever when I worked up the courage to tell my own dad about how bad the situation had gotten with my mom. My dad was the first person to make me think that what I had to say was important-- even when it wasn't life or death. He never rushed me. He's never been bored or ever encouraged me to get to the point. He's talked me down from every ledge, through every problem of logic or of the heart. He's been so steadfastly on my team for whatever ridiculous goal I've ever had, even to this day, it scares me that in my life, I have at least one person I cannot lose. Because of this, he's the person I care most about making proud of me. 


Which is not say he's just a prop for my life. He's one of most talented, weird, cool people to ever live. In truth, I basically just hope he's as proud of me as I am of him. I  never used to think our personalities were the same, but the older I get, the more I'm seeing how similar at least our artistic temperaments are. 


Ten years ago, my life changed again when I lost another temperamental soul mate of mine, and a great glue of our family: my grandfather. I can't believe it's been ten years without him. The thought of it knocks the wind out me. I still recall so so vividly how far away, how lost at sea I felt when he died and I was in Japan. It still feels vert present, the memory of scribbling furiously my multi-multi page letter to him, when I knew the end was near. How the letter arrived just in time for Father's Day. How he was gone the next week. The traces of him are harder to find since I've moved to the UK, though I still run into him in thoughts that are not my own, but clearly the opinion of James A. Ferguson, just using me as a conduit. 


Seven years ago, I met another father who continues to blow me away. I know I focus a lot of my love on Aly, but I think it's important that I recognize the other half of one of my all-time favorite couples: Dion. In my own generation, he's the father I'm most inspired by. His daughter Hayley was born just in time for his 18th birthday. At at 18, this guy just went to it, putting his kid first in every way possible. I'm in awe of the way he talks to Hayley-- the way he strikes a balance between support and discipline-- (he allows no bargaining. It blew my mind) and what a wonderful young lady Hayley is turning out to be. It warms my heart that he was able to turn his devotion to supporting his daughter into amazing business skills, and then to get the eff out of Lehman Bros just in time, to start an amazing business with Aly, and (just like seeing my dad be able to realize his musical dreams makes me happy) finally make himself into the music artist he always wanted to be. You are truly, unequivocally, without a doubt one of the good guys, Dion. I feel blessed to know you. And comforted knowing you're gonna look after my friend Aly for the rest of your lives. I can't wait to celebrate with you both this August. And I'm celebrating with you and your song today. 


Keep being awesome out there fathers. And I will line up every year to gush. Shower. The. People. 

A Dreamy Scrapbook

Despite one of my best friends/most astute film critics I know calling it "a coffee table book of a movie" (and though I hated to admit it, I agreed) Jane Campion's Bright Star remains one of my favorite films. When I need to calm down or just generally feel better, I put it on while I try to sleep or just watch on these frequently rainy days. I watch for the scene with the billowing curtain, for when they sweep the tattered butterflies into the dust bin, most especially for all the moments when they read Keats's poems and letters. 


I suppose that's why I made my own scrap book out of Jane Campion's scrap book. Her site is now defunct, but it seems I'm not the only one who loved it's dreamy moods. Something about the fact that the site no longer exists seems fitting, doesn't it? Makes it all the more romantic? I think Keats himself would have appreciated that kind of ephermera. The same guy whose tomb says "here lies one whose name was writ in water."


As I contemplate a lot of big decisions coming up for me on this Mother's Day in the US, I wish I had a bit more time to daydream to Bright Star. At least this work and wind in St Andrews will keep me busy and  thoughts of mothers at bay. 

In case you can't think of what to get me for my birthday - The Keats Brothers

While taking a turn through a bookstore this week, I had one of those moments of panic that arises in me when I realize I have missed the publication of a book super relevant to my life. In this case, a new dual biography of John and his brother George Keats. 


If you read this, you no doubt know Keatsy as my cosmic boyfriend. And George, John's younger brother, is not the recipient of some of John's best and most famous letters, (including prime article of my life numero uno on negative capability) but a pretty amazing story of rise to power in his own right through immigration to America. 


This new bio, by Stanford scholar Denise Gigante reveals new insight into both men's lives by looking at their relationship. I think I actually drooled on the floor of Blackwell's. 


For more check out here & here. Also, you KNOW I'll be attending this. 

My College Roomie Won a Grammy!

Man, I had better get my ass in gear! You may have seen when I posted this. I could not be more proud of my lovely, quirky, snoring first Rice room mate. I was fortunate enough to see Sasha's performance as Kitty Oppenheimer in Dr. Atomic. It was inspiring and beautiful. Just like Sasha is every day. Couldn't happen to a nicer person. You go, Sasha! 


Also, Happy Birthday to another beautiful and talented red-headed songstress, Autumn Hurlbert!! 


And since it's Tuesday, don't forget to check out my SMASH recap over on BroadwaySpotted!

Whitney, Addiction, & the Best Therapy I Ever Had

When people ask me how I manage to be as "normal" or "well-adjusted" as I am given my childhood, I almost never tell them this one key ingredient: Whitney Houston. Therapy is awesome. I pretty much think everyone could benefit from some therapy. It's important to see a professional. I spent time with a few. Some were actual psychologists and counselors, but more were professionals of another kind. The absolute best of the best-- musicians. 


It's not even just that Whitney's voice was perfect in 1991 and 1992...or effortless...or that she was an absolute first rate interpreter of songs. And that is so key, isn't it? Perfect voices don't mean much if there's nothing behind the eyes. If you aren't conveying the emotion behind the songs. 


It's not even that those songs on The Bodyguard soundtrack or any of Whitney's other hits were so applicable to my life situation as an abused 10 year old. But the depth of feeling behind everything Whitney sang-- that I knew. 


When I left my mom's house and moved in with my dad and my cold-as-ice step family in 1992, I had no where but the sanctuary of my own bedroom and my own mind. I locked myself in my room and sang at the top of my lungs to "I Have Nothing" so many times, it's actually no wonder why my stepfamily didn't like me too much. But I guess somewhere in my little kid subconscious, I knew that the only way out is through. 


I sang in front of the mirror. I cried a lot. I watched what it looked like and heard what it sounded like for me to feel everything I felt about having an addict for a mother, about being abandoned like that, about not feeling like I would ever belong anywhere. I looked myself in the eye and told myself everything I needed to hear. That's how I learned what it took to always land on the other side of whatever I was going to go through in my life. The cassette tape never gave out, never got sick of me. Whitney never felt that song any less, no matter how many times I needed to feel whatever I felt...at that level. 


You cannot opt out of these things if you want to survive. 


I suppose that's part of what makes me so sad today, thinking about Whitney's early passing and her own addictions. How could she so precisely feel it all in performing, but need the aid of cocaine, booze-- you name it-- in daily life? I think about how young she was when she got into the business. I think about what makes us secure and what draws us into our insecurities. 


Look at that video of the famous "Star Spangled Banner." There are so many levels. It's so rich. But the best part-- the part that reveals what was great about Whitney is everything about the word "brave" at the end there. Not because of the notes or the orchestra but because of how at home she was, how confident, how she knew herself and the world on that last chromatic breakdown. Watch her arms. Watch her face. How she knew exactly what the world was going to give her. And what her voice would do. Control. 


Which, of course, is a word I go back to a lot thinking about addiction. The difference between what you can and cannot control. Moments like the end of that National Anthem are so perfect, so perfectly full of emotion, it's hard not to look at her and think she's invincible. It's impossible not to think of my mother. How quickly you can go from an invincible heart to a young death-- either of the body or the soul or both. How unconscious it might be if you aren't just singing your guts out with feeling. And even if you are. 


I think about this all the time. But especially on days like today. Do what makes your heart strong. Do what makes you invincible. Do the thing that no one can ever take away from you. Drugs are never that. It's not a coincidence that cocaine weakens your heart. Alcohol is never that. It's not a coincidence that alcohol breaks down your liver-- the organ that filters out toxins. And they lose potency over time. Moments like this, however, do not. They will always make you feel. 

Just listen to this. RIP, Whitney. 

Truth: I Conceal My Fear in Loudness

One of the main characters in my novel is violently brilliant, but thwarted dancer. And since I'm one of the world's klutziest people, even my vocabulary with the physicality of dance is somewhat lacking. Thus, Jake recommended I read a book I'd been meaning to  get around to for ages: Colum McCann's Dancer. 


SO many things. The Russia. The Margot Fonteyn. The story of the beautiful, if slightly (okay, lotsly) cruel man. McCann's novelized biography of precision-master Rudolf Nureyev has a lot going for it. And that's even before we look at its form. A novelized biography. So close to the ideas I'm looking at for my phd re: roman a clef and "non-fiction novels" a la Truman Capote's In Cold Blood. 


And using one artform to discuss another. I haven't always loved the book, (I'd have liked more separation between narrators. I always do. Sigh. And actually, I enjoyed the impressionistic sections in Rudi's own voice perhaps best anyhow) but it's been well worth the read. Well worth looking at Rudik again. There's a lot to be learned from his drive. He considered almost everything that wasn't dancing a waste of time. It's always something I'm weighing. Balance vs. Greatness. Where they intersect. 

Here's to you, Vegas, Forever in the 90s

Here's a little confession: whenever I'm homesick (or, for that matter, can't sleep... so let's just say, this is a common occurrence) I watch CSI. A part of me feels a little silly for doing it, knowing that, except for the occasional obligatory shot of Nick Stokes on the Strip, it isn't filmed here. 


But they get almost all of the details right. From the street names & intersections, to which neighborhoods are bad and which are posh... they even use local newscasters when they show news clips. (Most often Paula Francis.) This is mostly due to creator (and my teenage speech & debate patron) Anthony Zuiker. 


And it's that texture, even more so than my belief that Nick Stokes is the perfect man (I love when he flips that shovel in the opening sequence. Bam!), or the increasingly preposterous (and/or recycled! They rely on 10-12 years of distance for you not to remember certain actors coming back [such as the actor who plays Henry, who originally played the baddie in a zoo animal smuggling case that got a man killed. He couldn't be Henry! He got sent prison.]) plot ideas (like the whole Strangers on a Train idea. They've done that one three times now). Even more than my loose personal connection, which somehow feels less than loose. 


Everything about Vegas, even CSI, loops back around to the 90s. The show didn't start until 2000, the year I graduated and left Las Vegas, but everything about it feels fixed in the 90s, just like Vegas. It's willingness to strip, repurpose and reassemble pieces-- actors, plot lines, you name it. 


I can't stress the truth of this to you enough. And can you blame Vegas? (The dream of the 90 is alive in more places than just Portland!) The 90s were a golden decade. The 90s were good to Vegas. Good to America, in fact. It started with the Mirage in '89, and then the Excalibur and the Rio in '90, the Las Vegas Bowl in '92. In '93 we sold and imploded the Dunes to make way for the Bellagio and built the one billion dollar MGM Grand. (In the spot of the old Marina Hotel. That wing still smells like fish to me.)


'94 - Luxor opens with a light beam you "can see from space."
'95 - Fremont Street Experience built, Hard Rock Hotel opens, Landmark imploded. 
'96 - Stratosphere opens. The iconic Sands is closed and imploded on November 26
'98 - Aladdin imploded, rebuilt. Bellagio opens featuring Las Vegas's first fine art museum


We've never been as good as we were then. But we keep trying. And I'm certainly not the only fan of nostalgia around here. The radio stations still have the same DJs. Mark & Mercedes are still playing almost exclusively 90s music. Paula Francis is still rocking the news on Channel 8.  It's comforting.


It took me a long time-- nearly 20 years-- to come to appreciate, or even understand, this weird and sort of wonderful place where I spent my formative years. While the 90s weren't an especially "good" decade for me, those years are echoing and reverberating back through everything I've done since. A part of me has always tried to deny to myself that this is where I came from-- it's not intellectual or cerebral, Vegas doesn't appreciate art or culture, etc etc etc, I have waxed on to myself, as I toured the world, and tried on different versions of myself for size. And oddly, moving abroad has actually enabled me to be here more often and more fully than I have ever before. 


Vegas is always destroying and regenerating-- we have no sentiment. We rip it down. Anything that isn't working anymore-- it comes down in artful implosions. But a part of it is fixed resolutely somewhere in the 90s. And I'm glad of it. It makes sure I can't let myself off the hook. Any temptation I might have to forget the fluke of my identity is evaporated driving down the many many freeways to the tune of one of those 90s jams. They can start calling Barbary Coast "Bill's" but Drais is still there and so is Battista's Hole in the Wall with world's oldest living accordion player. And Green Valley Parkway is a bit bleaker than it was in my day-- we're no longer dying the grass green-- but drive down Windmill & turn on Glacier, and my old house is still there, along with the Willow tree my dad and I planted in the front yard in 1994. It's taken over the whole yard. You'd hardly know you were in the desert. 

Bonnie & Clyde on Broadway and the cover of Time Out

2011 has been a good year for quite a few of my friends in the entertainment industry. But I don't think anyone I know is having a better year than Jeremy. Let's see. He racked up the lead role in critically acclaimed cult-classic-turned-stage-show Newsies, got engaged, starred in this little flick with Dolly Parton & Queen Latifah (man, I love a good movie musical!), and now he's starring as bad-boy icon Clyde Barrow, originating his first role on Broadway in Bonnie & Clyde. 


Don't forget about that little cover of  Time Out New York, ether. And a big old photo spread and interview on the inside. Check it out. And! as of Tuesday, it's confirmed that Newsies will be hitting Broadway for a limited run. I bet my pal Jeremy is wishing he could clone himself right about now. 


All this comes as no surprise to me because Jeremy is a rare talent... and something even more rare on Broadway: a believable badass. Yeah sure, he's got kind of a baby face. But he makes that tommy gun in his hand look good. Something about him is convincing as a magnetic man from the wrong side of the tracks in a way most of the dudes who end up on Broadway simply aren't. 


And I feel confident enough to admit that there is a a riff section he did when we were recording "In Your Name" from Nicholas & Alexandra that I will just listen to on a loop. It's just heaven. Listen here. 


Congrats to you, Mr. Jeremy Jordan. I suppose we don't need to go into business with our genius contact lens idea now. Instead, I'll just rush to see him at the Schoenfeld next time I'm in NYC. 

photos from Time Out New York, Dale May
Also this. This is hilarious. 

Charlie Chaplin

One of the projects on my list of "Please let me get around to writing all of these before I die" is a Charlie Chaplin musical. He could do anything. Writer, Director, performer, composer. It's no wonder George Bernard Shaw called him "the only genius to come out of the movie industry."


I've been studying the nature of genius a lot lately for my thesis on artistic communities. It's been nice to delve back into his work and the partnership he formed with Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks with United Artists. But my soft spot for ol' Charlie is long-standing. He was was one of my first talent-crushes since I saw the amazing biopic with Robert Downey Junior when I was a kid. (Check out this ULTRA 90'stastic trailer) Then I started watching all his films. 


The man who wrote "Smile" is one of the most genuinely moving people to witness. Not just funny, though obviously he was. He was so vulnerable. Even in comedies, even without speaking, there was something heartbreaking about his every moment on screen. I cry every time I watch The Kid. And I'm not exaggerating when I say I'd name my hypothetical kid Chaplin. 


I can't help thinking that what called Chaplin to speak for the first time in his films, in The Great Dictator-- which he funded with his own money-- holds just as true or truer today. 

the week of the star

Today, I started my birthday week pamperings with a facial. It was a delight! Basically, I like to celebrate my birthday for the entire week. That's not just because it's my birthday, but so many of my favorite people have birthdays this week too! Including today, which is my dear, lovely, wonderful friend Bebhinn's birthday. 

We were born in "the week of the star" and that's certainly true of bright Bebhinn. When people say that I'm "put-together" I always laugh. Because when I think of put together, I think Bebhinn. She came to us in New York by way of Virginia by way of West Virginia, by way of Dublin, Ireland. And as soon as I met her, one fall day at Carleton V during my temp stint in interior design, I knew I was faced with the great female "two options." The "two options" was instituted at Rice and has always served me well. It goes a little something like this:

If you meet a girl that's really so super amazing that you're inclined to feel jealous, the best thing you can do is make friends with her. That's the second option. And it's the best one. Bebhinn was wearing this perfect white tailored shirt (she's the only person I know who can keep white tailored shirts looking perfect. I mean, come on!) and pencil skirt. And instead of dwelling on how I certainly would have already spilled something on it, I went up to her again and invited her to some event I was going to later that week. And we've been friends ever since! 

While it's her dream to work at Vogue someday, she's been keeping busy the last five years at Oscar de la Renta and Fendi. When I'm lucky, she lets me borrow stuff. And in true Bebhinn-to-Ryann ratio, last year, for my/our birthday, she gave me the most beautiful present I've received (this mother of pearl/python skin O de la R bracelet) which I promptly, clumsily broke. Typical.

I still have the bracelet though. Just like I still have the card she gave me at my going away party that says, "You're a fucking GENIUS!" It hangs over my desk while I write and reminds me that whether the rest of the world thinks I am or not, my lovely, classy, stylish friend thinks I am. And that's enough for me. 

Happy birthday, dear globe-trotting Bebhinn! I hope we can rendezvous in some beautiful European locale sometime soon. Much love to you!

only in nyc: amazing subway performer engagement serenade

This is one of those super magical moments that make me miss NYC. My amazing friend Autumn got engaged this weekend to her super cool boyfriend, Tim. They're a special couple for me 
1. because Autumn is just a National Treasure as far as friends go 
2. Both of them were so supportive and helpful to me as I was moving out of my apt on my way to Scotland and they were moving in. (I'm talking, Tim carried a VERY heavy box to the post office for me and they're STILL storing some of my stuff!)


I had a long skype catch up with her just two days before it happened and felt totally peachy about life. Autumn has that affect on people. Tim is one smart guy to snap her up! Kind of a whirlwind romance-- fitting of a subway serenade. Pay attention to altered lyrics of this Michael Jackson classic. 


Best wishes to you, my lovely friends!

remember, london is where we lived before we took off for neverland

The worst book of poetry ever. 

I'm still in London on a sort of emotional health retreat- haha. I've mostly been tucked away on Broadway Market in the middle of Hackney/London Fields. It's like a hidden gem of a street and best of all, Sophie and Adam live here. 


We've gotten way too much caffeine at La Bouche and Gossip (home of the worst book of poetry ever-- see above. Just look at the smile-fist 1980's author photo on the back. The book was dedicated to everyone who'd ever been unemployed-- ha!) ran into friends at other coffee shops, tried fun cocktails at Off-Broadway (felt at home there) and just had a lot of good laughing/borderline crying talks. And music! (Sophie has a show tonight!) 


And we've been developing an American alter-ego for Sophie we're calling Charlie Wynter. We think she's almost ready to be passed off as real to the public. I'll let you know how it goes. 


The first night I was here, we were shopping for dinner and I was recounting some story involving several of this amazing set of friends I've fallen into and Adam Kay said, "Wow, I hope you know you got super lucky. I was in the UK for years before I found friends like these." To which I replied, "Oh trust me. I am aware of just how lucky I am." 


I am actually surrounded, all across the world, by friends who know just what to say when I'm feeling blue. Not the least of whom is Sophie. And certainly the best of whom is Emily, who always has something amazing like this to say: "I hope you and Sophie are in a smokey pub somewhere drinking beer. Remember, London is where Wendy, Michael and John lived before they took off to Neverland. London always reminds me of Peter Pan."

tips are dead sexy.